


What Is Just

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Discussion of character death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place post-game, with Hawke siding with the Templars. Hawke feels torn apart and haunted by the fate he chose for Anders. Fenris offers what comfort he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Just

Hawke stood at the open window of his bedroom, letting the wind ruffle his hair as it barreled past. For the moment, no rain or thunder followed, just loud, blustering gusts that rattled the window panes. Hawke closed his eyes as it washed over him. He leaned heavily on the window sill, his palms digging into the wood. Never in his life had he felt more defeated than now, when victory was finally fully his.

The first nights, he celebrated. He drank deeply with his friends and ravished his elven lover and thrilled in the feeling of being _alive_ , despite everything, absolutely _everything_ , working to tear him apart. But as the nights wore on, the euphoria bled away, leaving hollow places exposed--the wounds there was no healer left to heal. Hawke grimaced, his fingers tightening on the window sill. There was no healer left, because Hawke had killed him. The flash of Anders’s face, resigned and sad in those last moments, darted through his mind. That bloody, stupid, blind fool. That terrible misguided… _abomination_? Hawke’s face twisted with the effort to hold back his emotion.

_How could you?_

Merrill had asked him to let Anders live. To give him a chance. Show him… some harsh sense of mercy. Mercy in the face of Justice. Hawke’s heart clenched. _How many chances could I give him? How many times could I ignore his words? How many times could I pretend he meant well, that he was harmless, that he wouldn’t do something…drastic?_

But he did.

And Hawke, in his bitterness, burning with the sting of terrible betrayal… Hawke had killed him. He winced again. He wanted to think of it some other way, something that wasn’t so stark, something like “ended his life” or “ushered him on to the Fade,” but this wasn’t poetry. This was a man’s life, and he snuffed it out -- instantly, simply, like pinching the flame of candle. Anders slumped to the ground, feathers and blonde hair matting with blood. Gone. Done. Hawke squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. He had killed before. Countless. And he would kill again. But he had never killed someone that _mattered_ before. He had never had the life of someone he cared about in his hands. _Cared about…_ it felt a strange term to try fitting to their friendship, which had grown strained and uncomfortable as the years stretched. He knew Anders cared about him, once, knew from Varric’s snide comments, from the healer’s sad glances that grew sadder as Hawke and Fenris reconciled. No, it was not that kind of feeling. But Hawke did care. Anders was a friend, a comrade that fought at his side, that stood with him, that supported him. And while Anders’s own anger and vitriol made it increasingly difficult to sympathize with his cause, Hawke could admire his passion, his devotion. Until it led him too far.

Hawke heard soft footfalls on the carpet behind him, shaking him from his reverie. He realized then that he was crying.

“Hawke.”

It was quiet, unusually gentle from that gravelly voice. Hawke couldn’t look at him. He hung his head, letting the wind continue to beat against his face. After a few moments, Fenris slowly came to stand at his side. Hawke could feel the elf’s eyes on him, and he slowly lifted his head again, but kept his eyes on the ground below. His chest felt tight.

“Hawke.” Barely a whisper this time, and Hawke knew he’d seen the tears.

Hawke bit his lip, and in a strangled voice, he said, “I killed him, Fenris.”

He felt strong fingers slide across his cheek, turning his face. He was vaguely surprised not to feel the spiky tips of the elf’s gauntlets, just smooth, warm skin. More tears threatened to spill as he finally looked at Fenris. The elf had shed his sword and armor somewhere near Hawke’s bedroom door, though Hawke was too lost in thought to hear. He stood before Hawke only in his sleeveless tunic and leggings, his brow furrowed with concern. Hawke closed his eyes again and let a few more tears spill, leaning into Fenris’s hand.

“I was so certain, in the moment,” Hawke choked out, “I was so certain. I was so angry. And I… killed him.”

He half expected Fenris to mutter that he knew, he was there, but the warrior did not speak. Instead, he slowly moved his thumb over Hawke’s cheek, clearing the tears, and waited for Hawke to continue. At length, Hawke said, “Maybe Merrill was right. Maybe I should have—”

“Hawke,” Fenris interrupted, his tone little more forceful this time, “How often has the blood mage been right?”

“I—” Hawke began, but then stopped, swallowing.

Fenris sighed. “I cannot pretend to understand your grief. You know I harbored little good will for the abon— for the man.” Were the emotion not so heavy on his shoulders, Hawke might have managed a smirk. Even now, Fenris would not call the healer by name. “But I do understand… the pain of taking lives that meant something to you,” Fenris continued.

Hawke opened his eyes, a distant night of conversation over wine floating back through his head, Fenris talking about the Fog Warriors, about his past. Hawke pursed his lips and nodded.

“I cannot tell you it becomes easier to bear,” Fenris said after a few moments passed, “but I can tell you that I believe what you did was the right course of action.”

“Do you?” Hawke said, and it sounded almost like a whimper. Desperation surged through him, though for what, he couldn’t be sure. Approval? Confirmation? Or maybe… _forgiveness_.

Fenris lifted his free hand to the other side of Hawke’s face. “Hawke, that night… he was not the man you came to know as a friend. That man was long, long gone. Could you not see that in his face, in his words?”

“Does that justify killing him?” Hawke asked, resting his hands loosely at Fenris’s waist.

“How much more would he have to do to show you he was corrupted, that that _thing_ inside of him was eating him alive? He _destroyed_ the Chantry. He took so many innocent lives in the name of what he was becoming. Besides that, he _wanted_ you to do it. He said so himself.”

“Then perhaps that, too, should have stayed my hand,” Hawke said.

Fenris paused, taking a breath and looking down. “I do not wish to make this worse. You know how I feel about what he was. But I ask you, would you have waited to see him become what Orsino became? Or Meredith? Did he not come so near? Would you rather he go free, that spirit twisting inside of him, consuming him beyond what he could control, so that he might do something even worse?”

Hawke let out a heavy sigh. “No,” he said quietly. “No.”

After a moment, he wrapped his arms around Fenris’s back and buried his face in the elf’s neck. Fenris’s hands slid into his hair, his arms going tightly around Hawke’s shoulders. He kissed the man’s temple, and let Hawke’s hot tears soak his skin while he held him. The wind from the open window blew against them, but they paid it no mind, standing for a long time in each other’s arms. When the wind was finally joined by rain, Hawke reluctantly pulled away, his face stiff with dried tears, and shut the window. He glanced back at Fenris, almost startled by the gentle expression that met him.

“Thank you,” Hawke whispered.

“There is no need,” Fenris answered.

Hawke leaned forward and kissed the elf’s forehead, and a subtle blush spread across Fenris’s cheeks. Hawke turned to the neglected fire in his hearth, stacking a few more logs and pausing to watch it roar back to life. He sat back on the rug, and before he could even speak, Fenris was kneeling down next to him. Hawke pulled the elf against his chest, and after a few stiff moments, Fenris settled back, letting his head rest in the crook of Hawke’s neck. Hawke nuzzled the soft white hair, hearing a low chuckle from below him.

Hawke was rarely at a loss for words, but he found his head too full, his heart too heavy, and he simply stared into the fire. Fenris seemed content enough with the silence, letting his fingers drift back and forth over Hawke’s arm. Hawke’s chest still felt knotted with regret, but he tried to let Fenris’s words sink in. What was the alternative? What might Jusice have made of Anders, if allowed to continue? What else might Anders have done? Still, Hawke refused to comfort himself with the idea that he stopped Anders from becoming a greater monster. There was no way for him to ever know, now.

 _He wasn’t the man you came to know._ That was true, but maybe not the way Fenris had meant it. Hawke came to know Anders as the man he wanted to believe he was. And maybe he was that man, for a time. But the longer Justice stewed and stirred inside Anders’s mind, the more Anders became a stranger. How long would it have been before it consumed him completely? Anders had remarked that his own anger changed the spirit, changed their bond... what were they becoming? That thought chilled him a little. Unconsciously, he gripped Fenris a little tighter, and the elf squeezed his arm in return. Hawke shut his eyes against the spiraling thoughts, but still they beat against him, and his chest ached. He tried to shift his focus to the warm weight of Fenris against him, and he leaned down to plant a kiss against the fabric of Fenris’s shirt where his neck met his shoulder. Fenris tilted his head slightly. Hawke trailed his lips up Fenris’s neck until he finally met skin, his hands sliding away to begin slowly unbuttoning the tunic.

“Help me forget,” he whispered against Fenris’s ear, and he felt Fenris shiver. The elf reaching behind him, tangling his fingers in Hawke’s hair, and Hawke kissed the sensitive spot underneath Fenris’s ear, nuzzling the point. Hawke slipped the rest of the buttons free and pushed Fenris’s tunic open, exposing his lyrium-lined torso. Fenris leaned his head back over Hawke’s shoulder, arching into Hawke’s touch as his hands slid up the elf’s chest. Fenris gripped Hawke’s hair a little harder, his free hand falling down to rest on Hawke’s thigh. He groaned, and Hawke felt a stirring low in his body at the sound.

_Help me forget._

Another surge of desperation that made his fingers press harder against Fenris’s ribs. The gesture did not escape notice, and Fenris turned in Hawke’s lap, looming over him. He cupped Hawke’s face firmly in his hands, tilting the man’s head to force him to look Fenris in the eye.

“It was just,” he whispered.

Hawke felt his eyes sting and fought the urge to shut them again. _Will I ever be certain that is true?_ Fenris dipped his head and kissed him slowly, sliding his lips over Hawke’s, then back again, gentle, and thorough. Hawke allowed the elf to drink him in like this. Fenris had never kissed him like this before — Hawke suspected this level of intimacy, of vulnerability, was far more difficult for the elf than ripping Hawke’s clothes off (not that Hawke felt any reason to complain). But Hawke appreciated the tenderness in that moment more than he could say, and instead of trying to speak the words, he slipped his hands under the tunic and traced them into Fenris’s skin.

_Forgive me._


End file.
